Headache
by finaljoy
Summary: Maybe it was a form of penance, she thought as the clock crept towards three and she almost nodded off for the fifth time. Maybe she was sitting up in the middle of the night to watch over him as he struggled through the migraine because she owed him, not because she cared about him, or felt guilty, or because she was just too nice to shuffle him off her couch and into the hallway.


_**AN The Bruce/Selina bug has bitten me, hard. I've been reading Team Damon's **_**You Look Better in Pearls,_ and I not only fell in love with her marvelous story, but also the idea that Bruce suffers from migraines. It's just such a wonderfully _human_ thing for __someone to deal with, and really was the reason I wrote this little doobly-doo._**

**_I also wanted to show Selina in a much more vulnerable way, where she didn't have all the answers and she really was scared of things and wasn't as in control of things as she liked people to think. It's an interesting look at her character that gives her a lot more depth than other versions of her, in my opinion._**

He got headaches sometimes.

He had told Selina that when they had been walking around the lovely little Italian village, right after he had remarked that he was having difficulties keeping a job, because apparently 'headaches' weren't enough to keep a person from being fired. She had joked (well, _kind _of joked) that it was because pampered billionaires didn't really need to be trained for anything except for partying and making it into tabloids, more to get a rise out of Bruce than anything. What she'd gotten instead was a small smile, tired, tired eyes and a hint as to what she would be dealing with in the future.

Of course, at the time, she hadn't exactly been planning on ever being around to witness such headaches, even though every time she saw him, Selina _swore_ it would be her last.

After seeing a dead man leaning against her car at seven at night (who then had the guts to ask her to dinner and explain things over wine, no less), Selina's immediate plan was to schmooze, pick his pocket and then vanish before the next morning (and admittedly agree to go to dinner with him, because a free meal was a free meal). She had laughed and talked and played nice, but the moment she had gotten home and seen him drive away down the lane, Selina's suitcases were out and everything she had was being thrown in. A respectable twelve minutes later, she had stripped the place of her presence, had her keys and bags in hand and was about to walk through the door and out of a life that had messy, messy loose ends, like Bruce Wayne.

But she couldn't.

The tentative, unsure look on his face as they ate chicken and he explained about software patches and autopilot and needing to kill Bruce Wayne to escape Gotham for good had been stuck in her head. It was like he wanted her to accept him, to accept what he was offering (begging, really).

And even though she was damning herself for it, she already had.

So she had stayed (for the next few days at least, maybe even a couple of weeks if she was feeling especially comfortable). Selina reluctantly unpacked everything, washed off her makeup, slipped of her heals, put away her beautiful, lovely pearl necklace (there had been no embarrassment equal to finding him while wearing those pearls), and then crawl into bed. She had done what she had sworn not to on so many occasions, and had let herself be captured. The next morning she got ready for work like nothing had happened, prayed it all was a dream and was about to head out when her bell rang and there Bruce was, freshly shaven and wearing a devilishly attractive suit, standing in her doorway.

Still, even when she had opened the door for him to walk in, Selina had _never _imagined allowing him to climb into her life so effectively that she would sit up in the middle of the night, just to watch over Bruce as he struggled past the pain.

When he had first told her about the headaches, Selina had just brushed them off as something he habitually dealt with, people got migraines all the time. Even after the nightmare she had that night, where she was trapped in a hallway that formed a circle, and the inside wall was a set of bars that allowed her to watch the brutal fight (beating, really) between Bane and Batman, it didn't click in her head. But afterwards, when she saw him again, noticed the way he limped and made sure to sit a certain way so as to not to hurt his back, it all fell into place. The migraines, the broken body, that was all her fault.

The image of Bane punching him over and over and over in the head, until his mask cracked, it all sprang into her brain to the point that she couldn't look at him anymore. Bruce could tell something was on her mind, but he never asked.

He had never laid any form of blame at her feet, which was probably what made it worse. If he had just come out and said it, given a little bit of anger that she could have attempted to earn forgiveness from, it would have been easier. Instead he was the fool with the big heart, and she was the fool with the big conscience.

So maybe it was a form of penance, she thought to herself as the clock crept towards three and she almost nodded off for the fifth time (and almost fell off her chair, making Selina glad that Bruce wasn't aware of anything around him) and she listened to him drag in another long, slow, pained breath for the thousandth time. Maybe she was doing this because she owed him, not because she cared about him, or felt guilty, or because she was just too freakin' nice to shuffle him off her couch and into the hallway.

It was a nice thought, she decided, clean and unattached and free of any future responsibility. A nice thought and a stupid one, because who was she kidding? Bruce Wayne had managed to wrap himself up inside of her, spreading to every little part of her until he was the only thing in her head.

Selina looked at the window, where the gauzy curtains managed to muffle the warm yellow light from the street lamps, and where people were getting on with their comfortable, infinitely less tragic lives. Perhaps even a few of them were managing to sleep.

It was defeat, she found herself thinking as she pushed herself off the chair, stumbling over to Bruce in a strange state of utter awareness and semi-consciousness. She was finally giving in to what she had been fighting every since he had said hello by shooting an arrow at a target by her head (which had made her give what she maintained to be a _forced_ scream of terror, and not a real one). She was finally admitting that she really did find him to be..._something._ First interesting, then relevant, then important, then captivating, and then...she wasn't even sure what. Selina didn't love him, no, she absolutely refused to say that she loved him, even when the image of Bane punching him and punching him and punching him made her want to vomit because of the pain she had caused Bruce to endure. She may not have loved him, but she really did care, and that was a long mile more than anyone else had gotten.

And it was because of this caring that she gently placed a hand on his arm, to let him know she was there. Bruce's eyes cracked open the tiniest bit, and she was certain the ghost of a smile moved his lips (this was something, as Bruce had told her that he could hardly muddle through the pain enough to move, much less speak when suffering from a headache).

She knew that it would probably hurt him more, but Selina managed to move him so that he was supported by her, then managed the long, cumbersome and anxiety ridden walk to the bedroom, because hey, the ends outweighed the means (what the end was, exactly, she wasn't sure, but Selina was certain that it was something more than just her bedroom). After listening to him grit out breaths and hold in whimpers of pain for so much longer than she would have liked, Selina managed to more or less drop him onto the bed. A few seconds later, he was tucked in and looked comparatively comfortable, wiping away the horrible memory of the idiotic trial she had just put herself through.

Selina knew that she had just walked across a bridge she could never go back over, and knew that whatever semblance of the cold, reserved and completely in control woman she had managed to hold onto had just been doused in gasoline and then set on fire, but it was late and she was tired and he was hurting too much for her to care. She had done the deed and would deal with the repercussions tomorrow.

It felt better than it probably should have to pull back the covers and climb in bed with Bruce, to snuggle up close and cast an arm around him to let him know that she was there, that he was safe. What felt just right, though, was closing her eyes and smelling the scent of his precisely masculine soap and hearing the vaguest whisper coming from his lips.

"Thank you, Selina."


End file.
